Toxic
by Bernard O'Hare
Summary: Before Ste arrives and before Brendan meets John Paul, Cheryl calls Brendan and informs him of Ste's 'parting words' to her before he left for America. Short fiction that takes place while Brendan is in Dublin. Brendan's P.O.V. (Have taken slight liberties with the time frames in this one.)


Letting someone get into your head… it's toxic. They whisper sweet nothings in your ear, promise you the World, then apologize when they can't deliver. You go your separate ways -never look back- the only thing gained from the whole sorry saga being a lesson learnt. Word to the wise…never trust someone whose word is no better than your own. Never trust someone who is only human and can't possibly love you unconditionally, no matter what they say. No matter how much they beg you to believe, even when you walk out the door and don't look back, that they do. Love you, that is. Don't trust it for a second, because the moment you trust their words… you're no longer a man. You're a slave.

I stroke my moustache and place my index finger and thumb on the small, half-filled whiskey glass sitting on the table before me. I've been sitting alone in this Dublin bar for over two hours, watching the hands on the clock idly make their way round and round the antique face. Tick… Tick...Tick. Each sound is matched by a tiny spasm in my cheek, which has been going crazy since I stepped off the plane at Dublin airport. My body may be in Ireland, but my thoughts are elsewhere. As soon as his face flashes in my mind, I take a swig of Whiskey and slam the glass on the table. The sound causes several elderly men to turn in their seats. The gray-eyed barman glances up from the glass he is polishing and fixes me with a stern look. He reminds me of an older version of myself, with a horseshoe moustache and dark hair flecked with grey. My cheek twitches once more and I look away.

My gaze travels around the small, secluded pub in the middle of Dublin city- an old haunt of mine. I used to go here almost every night when I was a teenager, just to get out of the house, and every night I'd get so drunk that I'd have to be carried home by my mates. I couldn't handle my drink back then 'cause I was a skinny lad; absolutely no meat on my bones. That didn't seem to bother Eileen though, 'cause one night (after a particularly heavy drinking session) I accidentally tripped over my own shoelaces and ended up collapsing onto the floor in a drunken stupor. She picked me up and it was love at first sight… for her. Not so much for me. Nonetheless, I had drunk so much that I'd numbed myself to the feelings of revulsion I got from being with a woman, so I kissed her. Next thing I know we're walking down the aisle and straight into a living nightmare.

I've changed a lot since then and so has this bar, it seems. It used to be full of life and thriving; now it's just a shell of its former glory. A husk with peeling, outdated wallpaper and a red carpet that's turned brown with years of dust and decay. My eyes travelled up from the carpet and landed on a man who was sitting in a booth at the side of the pub, right next to the bar.

My gaze paused on him while I kept my head low, trying to remain inconspicuous. He had sandy brown hair and tanned skin, with a slightly stern look in his expression as he concentrated on reading a book in his hands. The guy looked barely older than twenty, maybe younger than that, and he periodically looked away from his book to take a sip of a small pint of beer that looked like Shandy. Suddenly the boy looked up from his book and directly at me. I let my gaze linger for a moment too long before I eventually looked away; I couldn't help myself… he reminded me of _him_.

I took another swig of whiskey and polished off the glass, then immediately gestured to the barman for another. He poured me a glass and set it down on the bar-top, then slid it towards me with two fingers. I could feel his eyes upon me as he leant his elbow on the counter and began to speak;

"Don't drown yourself in that glass, boy," he said, whiskey-soaked voice low enough for only me to hear, "answers don't lie at the bottom."

I gazed into his eyes and lowered my eyelids. The man continued to stare hard at me with that same stern expression, unmoving, and his words sifted through the air. My top lip peeled back over my teeth and I let my head fall to the side as I took him in. I slowly leant into him and, through bared teeth, whispered,

"Don't you have a glass to polish?"

The man kept his eyes on me for a few seconds longer, then shook his head and slowly turned away. Today he tried to save a damned soul… he failed.

Suddenly the silence of the bar was filled with the low hum of music. I turned my head with my Whiskey glass poised to my lips and tried to find the source. Immediately I spotted the boy who had been reading his book. He was standing beside an old, rustic duke box that was perched by a group of drunken men.

My gaze followed him as he turned away from the machine and sauntered back to his seat, where he immediately picked up his book and continued to read whatever pompous, student book he was reading. I listened to the song he'd picked and recognized it instantly. I felt my head dip as the words of the song spilled over me and I was transported back to the days when Cheryl and I would dance to it on nights out. I would grab her hand and spin her, making her laugh and chuck her blonde curls back, while Lynsey tried to chat-up whatever friend I'd brought along for the night. This song was also playing in _Chez Chez_ on the day I met...

I took a swig of Whiskey and immediately buried the thought. All the while the lyrics dripped through the speakers, taunting me;

"_Stupid Cupid you're a real mean guy  
I'd like to clip your wings so you can't fly  
I'm in love and it's a crying shame  
And I know that you're the one to blame."_

I pressed my palm to my forehead and closed my eyes. I tried not to think of him but I couldn't help myself. When I opened my eyes again I immediately glanced over to the man who looked just like him –the twenty year old Connie Francis fan- and suddenly my mind was tortured with images of him as they spun round and round in my head. It's like once I allowed myself to think of him, once that seal was broken, I couldn't stop. Memories flashed in my mind and they felt so real it was as if I could touch them. I distinctly remembered the feel of his body below mine, the flesh of his lip between my teeth, the heat of him. The sweat of him. The smell of him. Every primal instinct in my weak, pathetic body betrayed me and I didn't know how much longer I could fight those feelings without destroying myself in the process. The thought made my body ache.

I closed my eyes and was suddenly aware of my tensed jaw and gritted teeth. A sigh escaped my lips, but I didn't register it as being from me. I tightened my hand around my whiskey glass as I remembered the smooth lines of his back when I brushed my fingers across his skin, when I would pull him closer to me as he sat naked in my lap. The way his cheeks would flush as he came. The way he would whisper my name every. Single. Time.

In the beginning his voice breathing in my ear would grate on my nerves; a constant reminder that what we were doing was disgusting. His voice was too deep; his hands were too calloused and I was too aware of the scratch of his stubble against my cheek as he buried his face against mine, as we clung together and shuddered through our climax.

At the time I felt _even more_ disgusted that I liked it…

"_Well since I kissed his loving lips of wine  
The thing that bothers me is that I like it fine…"_

I closed my eyes against the memories and pressed a closed fist to my forehead. I tried to erase the sound of his voice from my thoughts, tried to erase every speck of him from my memory, but my own body wasn't co-operating.

"You're _pathetic_," I mumbled, angrily through clenched teeth, "call yourself a man."

I opened my eyes in time to catch the barman flick his gaze away from me, embarrassed that he'd been caught so blatantly staring. I kept my gaze on him and slowly raised my glass once more, gave it a brief tilt towards him, then downed the entire contents into my mouth in one final swig. I slammed the glass on the table and, with a final brief glance to the boy at the table, I made my exit.

The cold, refreshing Dublin air drifted across my face as I walked into the middle of the street; head down and hands stuff deeply into my pockets. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone as I made my way down familiar streets, where I knew old friends still lived and worked, never having left the safety of their shamrock bubbles. I love Dublin, but I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't left when I did. I would've gone nuts, like an animal trapped in a cage. I knew from a young age that I'd move on from here, go somewhere new, somewhere nobody knew my God damn name…

I walked back to the expensive hotel I'd booked for myself before I'd even arrived in Dublin and made my way up to the presidential suite. I thought that if I had somewhere nice to go when I arrived it would at least help to numb any sort of _feelings_ that may bubble to the surface and help me forget what I'd left behind. If I thought about it too much I knew I'd do something stupid…like book a flight to America. Of course the suite didn't help, I'm a fucking idiot for thinking it would. I didn't forget about him. Couldn't forget that look in his eyes that day, less than a week ago when he asked me –no, _begged_ me- to ask him to stay. I couldn't stop the constant, repetitive whine in my head that taunted me with doubts…

_What if you'd just said yes?_

I immediately picked myself up from the bed, where I'd sprawled my useless body, and pulled a glass from the cabinet in the kitchenette and the bottle of Ireland's finest Whiskey that was placed beside it. I poured myself a healthy dose and took it to the table in the middle of the room, then sat down and proceeded to drink it with no other intention other than _forgetting_.

After half an hour of sitting in complete, blissful silence I felt my phone vibrate on the table beside me. My senses were dulled from the alcohol and slowly my fingers reached for the phone. I looked at the screen and moaned:

_Cheryl._

Her face flashed out at me from the display; a picture of her with her tongue stuck out at the camera while I sat beside her, oblivious. She'd set my phone to have this flash up whenever she rang and she knew I wouldn't be able to get the fucking thing off once she'd done it.

I sighed wearily and answered the call.

"Hello?" I muttered; voice low and thick with the sound of alcohol.

"Bren?" she said, "Is that you?"

"I think so," I replied, "haven't looked in the mirror for a while."

"You…you sound awful," I could practically see the concerned crack in her expression as I listened to the quiver of her voice, "have you been drinking?"

"Relax Chez, I had a couple of glasses, I'm not lying in a street corner," I rolled my eyes, "what do you want?"

There was silence on the other side of the phone as I drummed my fingers on the table top and sipped another swig of whiskey from the glass. Finally, the silence broke;

"Ste's gone, Brendan," she whispered, voice barely audible, "he just left there now."

My breath caught in my chest as the words hung in the air, thick and cancerous; they spread through the marrow of my bones like a disease. I leaned forward on the table and let out a groan, then buried my free hand in my hair. I closed my eyes and listened to the traffic out the window, the sound of cars blasting their horns and the shuffle of pedestrians, but nothing could distract me from the slow and constant ache in my chest.

He's gone…

"Right," I muttered, "Okay."

"_Are _you Okay?" she asked, but from the tone of her voice she already knew the answer.

I paused for a long moment, mouth opened but unable to express any words or muster the will to lie. I shook my head and listened to the sounds of Cheryl's soft, concerned breaths on the phone.

"Yeah," I whispered, "yeah, fine."

"Oh Brendan," she sighed, "you had to let him go."

I felt something drip down my cheek, slow and damp, and when I raised my hand to wipe it away I tried to tell myself it was a leak in the roof.

"I know," I barely managed to find the words, "D-did he…"

I tried to hold the words in but I couldn't help myself. It seemed pointless to deny myself this one final moment of weakness…

"Did he what Bren?" she asked, eager to tell me anything that would make it easier.

"Did he say anything to you?" I asked; eyes clenched shut as I tried with all my power to resist asking.

She was silent and I felt my heart drop as I realized that the question was ridiculous. Did he say what, exactly? That he didn't want to go with his husband to America? That he wants to be with me? That he…

"H-he said one thing," she muttered and her voice wavered, as if she too was trying to hold something back, "h-he told me to tell you that he won't ever forget you..."

I listened intently to her words as she spoke, but inside I felt like every single one was sent from God as a deliberate attempt to test me. If God does exist then he's trying to make this as difficult for me as he possibly can and I deserve every moment of torture.

"He told me that you mean more to him than you'll ever know…"

"Fuck," I whispered.

I tried to hold myself together. The alcohol and emotions that ran through my system made it impossible to think coherently and Cheryl's words melted into a jumble as I swigged back another shot of Whiskey in one final swoop.

"I'm worried about you, Brendan," she said, "please tell me you're not just cooped up in your room drinking."

"I'm not, Chez," but I could barely stop the slurred edge to my words, "don't worry about me."

"Get some sleep," she mumbled, upset.

"I will," I said, and in a moment of clarity I was grateful for her concern, "love ye, Chez."

"I love you, too," she sounded choked up, "and Brendan?"

"Yeah?" I asked.

"I know you might not believe this, Hon," I closed my eyes because I knew what was about to come next, "but I know Ste does too."

I clenched my teeth tight and shook my head, eyes closed against the words as if my eyelids were a shield that protected me from any damage they might do.

"Night, Chez," I muttered finally, then hung up the phone.

I sighed and let the phone drop onto the table with a loud crack. I didn't care if it was broken or not.

As I sat in the room, alone and trapped in my own misery, I felt like the walls were closing in on me. I stared at the empty glass on the table and the half-finished bottle of whiskey beside it, and tried to figure out how much it would take to put me out cold for the night. The tick in my cheek began to spasm out of control as I watched the glass, and in my head all I could think about was the brush of his lips against mine.

_Just ask me to stay with you; you know that I will…_

I closed my eyes against the memory and tried to battle it out. I couldn't have said yes to him. I couldn't ruin his whole, God damn life by saying yes. Closing my eyes didn't help though; it didn't erase him from my memory or make him go away…he was always there.

_Brendan please, just ask…_

My whole body shook as I tried to push away the thoughts; every muscle clenched as if ready to fight or flight. These thoughts were dangerous, the type of thoughts that would send a man over the edge if he dwelt on them for too long. I tried not to think about it too much days ago, when I boarded the plane or when I checked into the hotel or when I sat alone at the bar…but after Cheryl's phone-call, and as the alcohol slowly filtered through my system, my resolve broke…

_Steven, stop…_

My own voice was weak and pathetic and instantly relinquished control with its feebleness as I tried to rebuff him. At that moment he was too strong for me- too sure of what he wanted and too eager to take it. I wanted it so badly. I swear I intended to push him away before his lips touched mine, but once they did I knew I was powerless to resist him. I pulled him close for one final time and touched the back of his neck. My fingers grazed the fine hairs at the base of his skull as I placed my mouth on his, and I wanted to savor the feel of that moment because I knew it would be the last time I would ever be able to touch him again.

My muscles ached against the memory and my breaths were shallow and labored, like a wild animal under threat. My eyes remained focused on the glass on the table, while my brain bombarded me with images from the past that refused to leave me for even an instant. His face, his smile, his laugh… all drove me to the brink of insanity.

With a yell I leant forward, grabbed the glass and swung it across the room. As it hit the wall and smashed onto the floor into fragments, I could feel my entire body hum with energy as I breathed in and out in short, sharp bursts. Every hair on my body stood on end as I sat alone in that room, teeth bared and fingers splayed on the table as if about to mangle potential prey. I felt like I was outside of my own body looking in, and from this position I could see myself for the freak that I was.

The voices in my head were silenced.


End file.
